Wednesday, April 15, 2015

Meerkat’s Dance 

Sift the rumours 
through the slit of the nib; 
Sing your sermons backwards. 

Wear that wet plastic raincoat 
over your bare, bruised skin 
and read that testament. 

It’s grainy and grassy at the same time. 
Fluid yet tentative, blindly turning the rings 
on the number lock. 

Bleeding an empty bleed, 
not quite red nor visible. 
Yet viscous and singeing on skin. 

Let the neurons collect 
under the porous, night-time sky 
and drop their leaden necks. 

There must be a star somewhere, 
reserved for sighting on such moments. 

Let’s look skywards.

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